


The Things We Have to Fear

by StripedGriffin (mkdanielle)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, M/M, Sherlock's father is not a nice person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-07 19:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11065803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mkdanielle/pseuds/StripedGriffin
Summary: The old-fashioned chalkboards wrapped around his father's office displayed equations and theorems that none of these students could ever hope to understand. In fact, most of their professors couldn't, either. Around the walls of the Professor's office the secrets of the universe were scrawled in his careless, spidery writing. Worlds and stars and space and time and physics itself was layed bare in each stroke.Sherlock would be smart, just like the Professor. Just like his Father.





	1. The Professor

**Author's Note:**

> I have taken great liberties with the characters for this AU, in order to explore what it would mean if Sherlock's father was a very different sort of person. A specific person. We'll find out who in a couple chapters. 
> 
> I do already have this work outlined, and several chapters written, so not much chance of my not finishing it. 
> 
> The rest of the chapters will be longer than this first one, which is something of an introduction. 
> 
> Enjoy!   
> If you would like to find me elsewhere, I'm on Tumblr here: https://stripedgriffin.tumblr.com

Sultry summer air oozed in the window, past the limp curtains, curling through the stacks of old books, papers, letters, important things in every direction. The drone of important voices thrummed through the important things, bouncing and echoing into a sonorous background hum, lulling Sherlock further into his bored, bored BORED trance.

He had curled himself into this undetectable corner of his father's office under the idiotic assumption that things which he was not allowed to be party to must therefore be interesting. He could not have been more wrong, and now he was trapped in his poor decision, a bug stuck in amber of his own devising. Maybe someday, decades hence, he would be discovered and studied, a cautionary specimen to deter young boys from encroaching upon forbidden territory.

Suddenly his father's voice changed tone, a note of exasperation creeping in and Sherlock's body tensed in response to the changing mood.

"Why is this so difficult for you to grasp, Sebastian? Did you even read the binomial treatise assigned to the class? No? Do you think that I assign reading for FUN, Sebastian? For kicks and giggles and my goodness I just want to make sure there is some nice Sunday afternoon reading material just in case my students are bored?"

Sherlock didn't need to have a clear view of the student to know that he was frantically shaking his head at this point, wishing desperately that he had not come to the Professor for help, that he had read the material, that he had not signed up for this class, that maybe he had decided on a different major altogether.

The poor stupid kid. He didn't appreciate the Professor's genius, nobody did. Nobody could. The old-fashioned chalkboards wrapped around his father's office displayed equations and theorems that none of these students could ever hope to understand. In fact, most of their professors couldn't, either. Around the walls of the Professor's office the secrets of the universe were scrawled in his careless, spidery writing. Worlds and stars and space and time and physics itself was layed bare in each stroke.

And this student couldn't even make himself read Father's book. Ridiculous. Sherlock pulled his knees in closer as he vowed never to be so stupid. He would be smart, just like the Professor. Just like his Father.


	2. Redbeard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaves struck Sherlock as he ran, leaving wet, raw marks on his face, his hands, his legs. He didn't notice, the sound of his gasping breath filling his senses as his legs pushed him further and further into the forest. Dark, wet curls stuck to his forhead and obscured his vision but he pushed them frantically out of his eyes and carried on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, a real chapter in which Something Happens.

Leaves struck Sherlock as he ran, leaving wet, raw marks on his face, his hands, his legs. He didn't notice, the sound of his gasping breath filling his senses as his legs pushed him further and further into the forest. Dark, wet curls stuck to his forhead and obscured his vision but he pushed them frantically out of his eyes and carried on. 

 

_"REDBEARD!"_ His voice was raw from shouting but it still echoed loudly in his ears and he stopped to catch his ragged breath and press a shaking hand against his chest as if it would hold his heart inside his chest. The silence that answered his cry pressed in on him. It was getting dark now, hope draining from him as quickly as the tired twilight drained from the swollen clouds. 

 

Sherlock tried to run again, but he faltered and staggered to a nearby tree, his energy completely gone. When was the last time he had eaten? A piece of toast, forced down under his nanny's watchful eye at breakfast? Yes, that was it. He had not stopped to eat or get food when he fled the barn, too frantic and intent on retrieving... 

 

Redbeard. How could Father have done this? Redbeard was _his_ dog,  _Sherlock's_. He had picked him out himself from the litter of puppies in the barn, so tiny. He was the tiniest of the lot. Mycroft had sneered at him, called him the  _runt,_ like being small was his very own fault and unforgivable. Sherlock had promised himself that Redbeard would prove Mycroft wrong. Sherlock would help him. They would show that stuck-up git just what  _runts_ were capable of. Sherlock had fed him, held him, named him after a fearsome pirate, taught him not to chew on Sherlock's shoelaces ( _Mycroft's are fine,_ Sherlock whispered. _You may certainly chew on Mycroft's. I encourage it._ )

 

When a cold snap hit, three weeks after the puppies were born, Sherlock had snuck out to the barn with a blanket and slept on the floor with Redbeard. They had huddled together in the straw and kept each other warm all night. 

 

Since that night they had been inseparable, Redbeard flopping on Sherlock's feet as he did his reading assignments and Sherlock sneaking him scraps of whatever had been for dinner. Redbeard clumsily running after Sherlock and Sherlock stopping to let him catch up. Sherlock running out to the barn every morning as soon as he could escape, to check on Redbeard and tell him what their plans for the day were going to be... until this morning. 

 

Today was Saturday, and Sherlock had sprung out of bed with the alacrity only known to 10 year olds with the prospect of a reprieve from lessons. The tutor that Father had hired this time was barely intelligent, and Sherlock was always so BORED during school. His plans to not see any tiresome human beings today were foiled when his nanny caught him on the way out the door and forced a piece of toast upon him. Tiresome toast. Loathsome breakfast. Scarfing it down, Sherlock sprang free once more and headed for the barn. However, when he flung open the door, there was no small, scruffy dog there to greet him with tail wags and enthusiastic kisses (which, much to Sherlock's delight, disgusted Mycroft). 

 

_"Redbeard?_ " Sherlock ventured. 

"Redbeard!" There was no answering scuffle in the hay, no happy yip from a dark corner, and Sherlock was fighting down a surge of fear. He didn't know what he was afraid of, exactly, only that he was suddenly very sure that something bad had happened. If he didn't think about it, didn't let his brain wander to what might have happened, then nothing had happened. Redbeard was here, he was in the barn, he was hidden under a pile of straw, he was asleep, he just hadn't heard Sherlock, he was here, he was safe. Sherlock slowly moved through the dusky building, systematically searching in ever spot Redbeard must surely be. He searched quietly, not calling out for Redbeard beyond those first two frantic cries... he couldn't say why, only... if he didn't call, then Redbeard might still be asleep somewhere. With every searched spot the unnamed fear in his chest beat harder against his ribs and he _knew_ , somehow, that if he were to call out, that fear would grow even faster. He wouldn't be able to contain it anymore. He had been moving silently from corner to corner for several minutes before he noticed Mycroft standing beside the open door. His older brother had a strange look on his face. Sherlock ignored him, going back to his search. 

 

"Sherlock." No Mycroft, I can't hear you. I can't hear you and I can't see you and you don't exist and Redbeard is here, he is here somewhere and you can't tell me otherwise, go away, Mycroft, go away _please_. 

 

"Sherlock, you know your dog isn't here." I know no such thing Mycroft, just _shut up_ , _shut up SHUT UP_." 

" _Sherlock_." Mycroft caught his arm this time, and spun him around into the stream of light coming in the doorway. Sherlock shook his head, screwing his eyes close tight, and Mycroft kept speaking in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. 

 

"He isn't here, Sherlock, you know that. You know he was the runt, he was never going to be big and strong, Sherlock, and Father..." Mycroft paused, as though he was searching for a way to explain. I'm not a little boy anymore, Mycroft, I know Father is smart, so smart, and I will be smart just like him and I will be logical, I will, I will, but this one thing, this one illogical vice, to be attached to this one thing.... 

"Father cannot stand to feed and house an animal that is not going to be _useful_ , Sherlock, surely you realize that?"  

 

"Where is he, Mycroft." Sherlock opened his eyes, finally, and looked Mycroft in the eye.

"Where did Father take him?" Mycroft shook his head in warning.

 

"I don't know, Sherlock. He took him in the car early this morning, and returned without him. I don't know where he took him. You need to just accept this and move on." Sherlock knew it was illogical and therefore unacceptable but he couldn't, he just couldn't walk away and pretend like Redbeard had never existed. He was ashamed of his weakness, but... _Redbeard._  Sherlock spun and raced out of the barn, and into the woods that sprawled behind their estate. 

 

Now he leaned heavily on a tree, panting and wishing he had eaten more than one piece of the hateful toast this morning, so very long ago. Lifetimes had passed while he ran the paths of these woods, calling for his dog and refusing to accept that he was gone. Now the fear that had beat against his ribs this morning had died, morphing into despair and falling down to lay in his stomach, a rotting corpse of emotion, clogging his lungs and his throat with its stench. Redbeard was gone. Sherlock slid to the ground and gulped a full breath of air, his head tilting back to rest against the solid tree. The stars were just beginning to show, enough light gone from the world that their feeble pinpoints were no longer obscured. As tears flooded Sherlock's eyes, the stars swirled together in sparkling rivers of kaleidascope colors, like the famous painting his tutor had shown him last week. Galaxies, moving and twisting across the sky, distant and cold and brilliant. Like Father. Sherlock knew, with sudden icey clarity, what he was going to do. He was going to go home. He was going to be logical. He was going to be smart, smarter even than Father. He was going to forget Redbeard, delete his existence from his brain, surely that was possible. It had to be possible. And the tears drying on his cheeks right now were going to be his last. 

 

 


	3. Psychopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you hold the strings, the puppet cannot hurt you. Find the strings.

Father had finally given in to Sherlock's incessant pleading, and now Sherlock was bitterly regretting it. He should have known better than to ask for anything Father had deemed to be a bad idea, but he just wanted so badly to be a normal kid, just for a little while. School. Teachers. Homework. Backpacks. Cafeterias. Classmates. 

 

Ah, but the classmates were where the problems began, weren't they? Sherlock, small, elfin, wickedly intelligent, seemed to attract bullies like a fresh carcass drew vultures. Of course, the time it took the vultures to find the carcass depended on the state of the carcass and it's location.... But, come to find out, no one wanted to hear about that.  _Freak_.  

 

Sherlock had thought it interesting when he began to study it. It's not like he had killed the animals, he had just observed.  But no one was listening. 

 

It started with a whisper here and there.  _Freak. Weirdo. Psychopath._  Sherlock had to look up that last word, and as he sat in the library staring at the computer screen he wondered to himself what would be so bad about not caring what these people thought. Not caring how they felt, how they made him feel. Perhaps, thought Sherlock, a psychopath would be the most intelligent thing to become. The safest. 

 

He began to ignore the taunts in the hallway, but they only escalated until he was clutching his backpack tightly as he ran through the halls to escape, a tiny rabbit outrunning the wolves on his tail. But little rabbits can't run forever, can they. Sooner or later, he would be cornered and denying that fact to himself only served to make him unprepared.  

 

Sherlock looked wildly around the tightening circle of sneering faces, his mind racing for a way out, and off to the side he caught sight of Carl. Carl, who sat beside him in biology lab. Carl, who copied from his notes. Carl, who, while not exactly friendly, had never taken part in the taunts. 

" _Carl_!" Sherlock yelped, reaching for him. He didn't know what he expected, exactly, but he did not expect Carl to immediately be shoved into the ring of boys that had sprung out of nowhere. Carl's eyes met Sherlock's for a split second and Sherlock thought he saw something of an apology in them, but he couldn't be sure, because the next second Carl hit him. Sherlock had never been hit, and it took his brain a moment to catch up with his body as he was flung backwards into his locker, hitting his head. He slid to the ground, curling up on himself and trying to protect his face, as the rabid wolves descended.  _Play dead. They will get bored if you don't fight back. Like a possum,_ his mind finally helpfully supplied. Where had it been when he was trying to escape? Never mind. He would simply delete this episode as soon as he got home. He had gotten quite good at that, by this point. He had learned that organizing the thoughts in his brain helped tremendously to keep them from running into each other, and now he stood at the window in the living room of his Mind Palace and watched dispassionately as his body was beaten to a pulp. 

 

He was right, they did eventually tire of hitting an unresponsive victim, and he came to in the hallway, clutching his protesting ribs as he struggled to his feet. Bruises were blooming all over his body, small for a 13-year-old, and a deep ache in his chest made him suspect a fractured rib. He wasn't going to be able to make it home by himself. This realization was almost worse than being beaten. He reluctantly pulled out his cell phone and called Mycroft. 

*******

Playing the violin was like dancing with a partner. Sherlock's fingers danced over the strings, his bow flew, his body swayed, and in this moment he had a closer relationship with his instrument than he had ever had with a person. Here, alone in his room, he could throw himself into the music and it bore him away from this place. Somewhere deep in the twisting halls of his Mind Palace, he danced, abandoned, with his violin as his only partner. 

 

He could play for hours, but someone was banging on his door demanding entrance. Mycroft. Go away, Mycroft. Enough that I had to ask you for help today, now you want me to open my door? But Mycroft was not leaving. Sherlock wrenched open the door, violin and bow in the other hand, scowling as best he could through the mask of bruises on his face. 

 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" 

"Perhaps, brother mine, I simply want to see that you are still alive." Mycroft, smug as always, filled the door with his bulk. 

"You merely had to listen at the door to know that I am indeed still alive, you did not need to come in. Now what do you want?" Mycroft sighed. 

"Father wants to see you. In his study." Sherlock reluctantly put down his violin and followed his brother.

 

The lamps in his father's office shone bright, every corner devoid of shadow. _No secrets can hide in this room_ , thought Sherlock suddenly, before his attention was drawn to the figure behind the desk. The Professor quirked an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock clasped his hands tightly behind his back, preparing to hear yet again about his inability to function normally despite his great intelligence. _Perhaps, Father, I'm simply not smart enough. Not like you._  

 

"Why, Sherlock? Why must you always be at war with the world?" Sherlock paused, giving the question consideration. If Father was asking, it must be important. He took a deep breath. 

"I...I don't believe I am. I believe the world is at war with me. I am simply trying to survive it." The Professor nodded, as if this was the answer he expected. 

 

"Therin lies your problem, Sherlock. The world will always be at war, but the world, Sherlock, is _dull_. You and I, we are _not_. Our job is not to _survive_  this petty, cruel little world. Our job is _rule it._ When you hold the strings, the puppet cannot hurt you. Find the strings." Father smiled, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether he liked it. But... What Father said made sense. Sherlock thought again of what his classmates had called him. _Psychopath_. Perhaps psychopaths did not lie curled on the cold linoleum floor as boys far bigger than them tried to break them. Sherlock nodded. 

"I understand." The smile on Father's face didn't waver.

"No, Sherlock. You do not. But one day, you will. One day soon, I think. Go to bed now. " 

 

Sherlock did not play the violin any more that night. 

***********

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find my Tumblr here: StripedGriffin.tumblr.com 
> 
> Please leave kudos or comments if you are enjoying so far!


End file.
